Forbidden Fruit
by Soledad
Summary: Missing scene to Ep 1.04. Arthur is confronted with his unexpected feelings towards his manservant.One-shot.


**The Forbidden Fruit**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Arthur, Merlin and everything related to them belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Rating:** teens, I think.

**Genre:** Angst, with a pinch of romance, perhaps.

**Summary:** missing scene to Ep 1.04. Arthur is confronted with his unexpected feelings towards his manservant.

Beta read by the generous Wild Iris, whom I owe my never-ending gratitude. All remaining mistakes are mine.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The mind of Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot and heir to the throne, was in a sorry state of disarray. He couldn't quite believe what a terrifying disaster this day had turned into – and he had no idea how to make things better.

It wasn't the first time that he'd been harshly reminded of the limitations of his status – not to mention the limit of his influence on his father's decisions – but it hadn't hit him quite this hard before.

It had never been this _personal_ for him before.

And to think how well things had started off a couple of days earlier! After years upon years of tense hostilities, a peace treaty with Mercia had finally been within their grasp. After the plague that had recently swept through Camelot, the renewal of trade with the neighbouring country would have done a wealth of good for their subjects.

There had even been a distinct possibility of a tournament, between the knights of Camelot and those of Mercia. A chance to try their weapons skills against each other in a peaceful manner. Competition, instead of slaughter. A means to release all the tension that had been pent up in the last couple of years, without causing anyone serious harm.

But while the ink was still wet on the beautifully-scripted contract, Merlin just _had_ to blunder into the Great Hall and ruin everything. Accusing King Bayard of Mercia of treachery and that he'd planned to poison the Prince of Camelot.

Arthur knew he was being unfair to Merlin – after all, the boy meant well, he _always_ did – but he could not help being furious. Ever since the King had _rewarded_ the boy with a position in the royal household, Merlin kept embarrassing the Prince in the most creative ways possible. Like at the time Knight Valiant had tried to win a tournament with the help of an enchanted shield. Or when Merlin had stormed into the King's audience chamber, declaring that he was a sorcerer.

It seemed to Arthur that he hadn't done anything else since Merlin's arrival but try to save the boy from his foolish attempts to get himself killed, thrown into the dungeon or meet all kinds of other, most unpleasant fates. Sometimes he was sorely tempted _not_ to interfere and let the boy bear the consequences of his folly.

The only problem with that was: Merlin frighteningly often proved right in his outrageous accusations. And though the two of them had had a rather… unfortunate start, and Arthur still frequently called him an idiot, he'd come to believe Merlin's seemingly hare-brained theories. It was as if the boy had a sixth sense that helped him to uncover dangerous secrets no one else would even suspect.

Needless to say, those discoveries tended to land him in all kinds of trouble, from repeated trips to the stocks to mortal danger… like the mortal danger that he was in right now. Arthur thought he'd never forget the sight of Merlin – after having emptied the poisoned goblet – suddenly grabbing his throat and then dropping to the hard stone floor, choking. Proving the truth of his accusations… likely at the price of his own life.

He'd never forget the dead weight of that lanky body, all elbows and knees and long, thin limbs, as he tried to get the boy to Gaius' chambers, where he perchance could have been helped. Or Gwen's grief-stricken face as she hurried before them, clearing the corridors for him, so that he would not lose precious time.

Well, it turned out that all their efforts had been for nothing. Thanks to Gwen, who had found the flower petal in the poisoned goblet, Gaius had been able to recognise the poison that was used. But against the poison of the Mortaeus flower, there was only one antidote, Gaius had told them; and that had to be made from the leaves of the same plant.

Of course, the Mortaeus flower couldn't have been some common herb that one could simply pick from the court physician's own herb garden. No, it had to be some strange and rare plant, growing in the caves deep beneath the Forest of Balor, on the roots of the Mortaeus tree.

And if that hadn't been bad enough, Gaius' book revealed that the forest was guarded by some mythical beast: a monster with the body of a dragon, but the head and the legs of a rooster. A _cockatrice_ Gaius had called it, warning him that its venom was so potent that a single drop would mean certain death.

Arthur would have gone to seek the rare flower nonetheless. He liked a good challenge and hated being in anyone's debt. But his father had expressly forbidden him to do so, telling him in no uncertain terms that the life of the heir to the throne was worth infinitely more than that of a mere serving boy. That Merlin wouldn't be the only one to die for him, for that was what being the King – even the future King – meant.

Arthur was not sure he liked it. In truth, he was quite sure he _hated_ that aspect of kingship, present or future. Yet he couldn't entirely deny that his father was right about _one_ thing. There was more at risk than his own life. The life of the Prince wasn't his own; it belonged to the land and the people he was duty-bound to protect – didn't it?

Sometimes he hated being the Prince.

He'd come to Morgana's quarters to ease his heart. There was no one else he could have talked to about his doubts, and Morgana had a refreshingly unique view of things. He might have fought her and might tease her in front of other people – in fact, they both enjoyed those verbal battles enormously – but he knew that if things took a turn for the worse, he could always count on her.

She also had a strong, unerring feel for right and wrong that saw through all courtly phrases, flattering and lies. And she had no fear of voicing her opinion – not even in the face of the King himself. She was brave and passionate – and quite merciless in her righteousness. Just the thing Arthur needed right now, to come to the right decision.

As expected, she didn't disappoint him. After they had compared the details they knew and thought they finally had the whole picture, she said simply, "Sometimes you have to do what you think is _right_ – regardless of the consequences."

"You think I should go," Arthur said. It was _not_ a question. They knew each other too well for that.

Morgana shrugged, her eyes unreadable. "It doesn't matter what _I_ think. What does your heart tell you? Your sense of honour?"

Arthur sighed. "My heart tells me to go. My sense of honour tells me I _ought_ to go. But it isn't that simple. If I don't make it back, who will be the next king of Camelot? There's more than just my life at stake."

"That's quite true," Morgana allowed. "But what kind of king would Camelot want? One who would risk his life for that of a lowly servant, or one who does what his father tells him to? Think about it."

Arthur gave her no answer – not yet – but when he left her chambers to see how Merlin was doing, she looked after him with an enigmatic smile, as if she was privy to a secret he didn't know yet... but perchance would learn one day. She liked to be mysterious from time to time; and one had to admit that it suited her well.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Arthur found Merlin alone and delirious in the court physician's study, lying in the old man's own bed. The old healer and Gwen, who was helping him with Morgana's blessing, must have gone out, either for water or to gather some herbs in a futile attempt to find a cure, even though they _knew_ it was hopeless. 'Twas part of human nature to try one's utmost, against all hope if it had to be, after all.

The Prince stood by Merlin's bed and looked down at his fevered manservant with a pang of regret. Granted, Merlin often infuriated him with his clumsiness and his blatant disregard towards royal majesty (not to mention his hare-brained attempts to get himself killed) , but he'd also saved Arthur's life – twice so far that he knew about.

He might be an idiot, but he was a loyal idiot – and now there could be little doubt that this time he'd pay for his loyalty with his life.

Somehow it wasn't fair. Merlin was just a servant, a young country boy, with no weapons training, nor the strength that would be required to wield said weapons. He was not a soldier or a guard. Arthur should have protected _him_, not the other way round, no matter what his father said. That was the order of things: the strong protected the weak, and in exchange, the weak served the strong.

Although, to save someone from being poisoned required no great physical strength – just a generous heart. And that Merlin had such a heart Arthur had already known. Had the boy not put his own life at risk, just a short time ago, to save Gwen, who'd been falsely accused of sorcery? He'd have accepted death in her stead.

Of course, Morgana had said that Merlin was in love with Gwen, and there was a good chance that she was right. The two were often seen together, talking and laughing. But again, they had similar status at court, as the manservant of the Prince and the handmaid of the King's ward. Perchance they just had a lot in common and had become fast friends.

Arthur didn't know what he'd rather wish for. Gwen would be a good match for Merlin, eventually – assuming that Merlin survived the poison, that was – and yet he hated the thought of them sharing something he couldn't be part of. He wondered if Morgana felt the same.

The thought _He is mine!_ surfaced in his heart quite unexpectedly, surprising him very much. When had he begun to develop such possessive feelings towards his manservant? And before all else, _why_?

Yes, Merlin had known the danger he was putting himself in. He'd known what would happen if he drank from that goblet, but he did it anyway. He'd put his own life at risk to save Arthur's – but did that make him Arthur's possession? He was a man born free, not a slave, and he served the Prince by his own will. He could leave Camelot any time he wanted, as his village didn't even stand under Uther's rule… or he _could have_, were he not dying right now, just because he'd drunk the poison that had been meant for his lord.

Merlin began to thrash, burning up with fever, tossing the blanket aside. He was naked under the coverlet, save for his small clothes, his pale, angular body covered with a thin layer of sweat; Gaius and Gwen must have undressed him in the hope that he would cool down a bit without his jacket and trousers on. His torso was smooth like that of a young child – he was barely of age, after all, _if_ indeed he was of age – save for a thin trail of dark hair encircling both his breasts in a similar way that a well-shaped bodice would enhance the breasts of a woman. His mouth was half-open, his breath laboured.

Fearing that he might injure himself, Arthur grabbed his bony shoulders, pinning him easily to the bed with his greater strength. Merlin murmured something unintelligible and went suddenly limp under him, face flushed, long eyelashes fluttering like those of a girl. His lips, slightly parted and glistening, seemed so very inviting at the moment, as if he were waiting for the kiss of a lover.

Despite his youth, Arthur wasn't a virgin any more. His father had seen to it that he was introduced to the ways of love-play in a timely fashion, and the wench Uther had hired to teach him had been very skilled indeed. He'd also been taught that looking at a man the same way one would look at a woman was unnatural and despicable, not to mention forbidden and – if caught in the act – severely punished.

And yet the pliant mouth of his manservant proved too much of a temptation for the young Prince… like some forbidden fruit he just _had_ to have a taste of or he'd never find peace again. Praying that neither Gaius, nor Gwen would choose this very moment to return from whatever task they had to do, Arthur leaned forward and touched his mouth to Merlin's, lightly, tentatively.

At first, it didn't feel any different from kissing a girl. Merlin didn't grow much of a beard to speak of yet, and must have shaved right before drinking the poisoned wine, for his skin was as smooth and soft as any girl's Arthur had ever kissed. But when he unconsciously yielded to him, opening up like a flower under Arthur's lips, letting Arthur's tongue slip into his unnaturally hot mouth, it became very different all of a sudden. Arthur could taste the bitterness of Gaius' remedies with which the old man had futilely tried to break the fever, even though he'd known it would do no good. But beyond that, there was some elusive sweetness Arthur had never known before… something he recognised as belonging uniquely to Merlin. As if the sweetness of the boy's nature had been somehow manifested in his taste.

For a moment, Arthur lost himself in that unique favour completely. It was a feeling like coming home… like entering a pleasantly warm chamber after having spent a whole night out in the cold rain. Like finding the place he'd always been meant to find… _his_ place in the great order of things.

In the next moment, he recoiled, thoroughly disgusted with himself. What the hell was he doing? Only the heathen kings of ancient times – times filled with evil sorcery and perverted desires – had used their young servants that way! Merlin was still barely more than a boy, an innocent – what right did he have to corrupt him like that? What had turned _him_ into such a vile, corrupt man without forewarning? Was _this_ the way to reward Merlin for having saved his life repeatedly?

And yet, somewhere deep in his troubled heart Prince Arthur knew he couldn't truly regret what he'd done. If Merlin was to die, if they could not find a way to save him after all, at least Arthur would keep a memory of that unparalleled sweetness… a secret pleasure perchance no one else had tasted before him.

The question of utmost importance was, though: did he truly have to let Merlin die? Was he supposed to follow his father's stern orders and sacrifice the boy who'd saved his life repeatedly for the good of Camelot? Would it truly serve the good of Camelot if her future King held his own life more important than that of her people? That of _any_ of her people, but more importantly that of Merlin?

Arthur couldn't understand what had made Merlin so important for him… or _when_ it had happened… or _how_. All he knew was that he wouldn't – _couldn't_ – let the boy die. Not as long as there still was a faint chance to save him. Because that was the right thing to do, and as Morgana had said, sometimes one just _had_ to do the right thing – and damn the consequences.

King Uther would be furious, of course, and Arthur had learned to fear his father's fury, even though he rarely got to feel its full power directed at himself. But what else could he do? According to Gaius, the Mortaeus flower induced a slow and painful death. Merlin might hold out for four, maybe five days but not for much longer. Eventually, he _would_ die… and his death would be Arthur's fault, unless he did something – _anything_ – to prevent it.

His musings were interrupted by the return of Gaius and Gwen, who didn't seem the least surprised by his presence. He was known to care for his men, after all – granted, that usually meant his knights, but why would it be different when a servant was in dire peril?

Gwen flashed him a worried smile, then hurried to Merlin's bedside to check on him.

"Gaius," she said with a concerned frown, "I believe his fever has got worse."

"Place a wet cloth on his brow," Gaius instructed her, "while I check his pulse."

He lifted the boy's forearms and stared in shock at the circular pattern of rash on the inside of Merlin's wrists. "Oh, no…"

"What is it?" Arthur asked impatiently. "What does that mark mean?"

Gaius rushed to his work-table and turned over the leaves of his heavy medicine book in a great hurry. "It says here that once a rash appears, death will follow within two days," he told them in a defeated tone neither of them had heard before. "He only has two more days… perchance even less."

"How can it be?" Gwen demanded, swallowing her tears with great effort. "You said he had _four_ days!"

"He would," Gaius replied darkly, "if we would be dealing with a simple poisoning here. But it seems to me that something's increased the flower's potency. The book warns that the effects of the Mortaeus will be more rapid if an enchantment is used during the flower's preparation."

"An enchantment?" Arthur repeated in surprise. "Are you telling me that Bayard's a sorcerer?"

"No, he isn't," Gaius answered slowly.

"Then who did this?" Gwen asked. "Is sorcery allowed in Mercia?"

"It is… tolerated," Gaius said with a sigh, "but I doubt that any of their warlocks would have the power needed for such a strong enchantment."

"You know who's behind this," Arthur realised.

Gaius shook his head. "No. I do have some suspicion, but… no, that cannot be. She wouldn't dare come here.

"Who is _she_?" Arthur asked.

"I'm not allowed to tell you," Gaius replied. "You could ask your father, of course, but I doubt he'd give you an answer… and it would get both you and me in more trouble than we could deal with. Besides, it's pointless to discuss _who_ did it. Whoever it truly was, if we don't get the antidote, Merlin will die within two days, and in great pain."

That decided it for Arthur. He _would_ ride to the Forest of Balor tonight and search for the Mortaeus flower – and damn the consequences. He only hoped it wouldn't already be too late.

~The End~


End file.
